


Silva Altus

by stardust_made



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Magic, Sexy Times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2013-02-12
Packaged: 2017-11-29 01:57:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/681407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardust_made/pseuds/stardust_made
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something spooky, short and (hopefully) sweet, written for the prompt"While on a quest they get lost in a haunted wood, take shelter in a spooky cave, or come across a supernatural creature. Clearly the only way to survive the night is by a truly excessive amount of cuddling."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silva Altus

**Author's Note:**

> Entry on my LJ [over here](http://stardust-made.livejournal.com/37187.html). Written for the for the Octoberfest at [](http://gwaine_quest.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://gwaine_quest.livejournal.com/)**gwaine_quest** in 2011. I hope you enjoy and thanks for reading!:)

 

“I did not agree to this,” mutters Merlin. Gwaine can’t help himself—not that he’s trying—and grins.  
  
“I never knew you to be such an old woman, Merlin,” he says. Merlin doesn’t respond with anything but a quiet clatter of his teeth. Gwaine nudges his horse closer. He may tease Merlin, but he doesn’t want him miserable.  
  
Yet he has to admit Merlin’s got all the reasons for being miserable. They left Camelot at dawn, and it’s dark now; they’ve ridden _all_ day. Only once did they stop properly, at midday, to eat and let the horses rest. Gwaine is used to spending a lot of time on the saddle, but even _his_ back is starting to ache. And Merlin is tough—tougher than anyone believes him to be—but he’s not a rider or a knight.

Gwaine’s heart fills with fondness. Yes, Merlin is quite tough and brave—again, much braver than anyone gives him credit for. He only likes to moan, just to be on the safe side. It’s one of the things Gwaine finds quite endearing about him.  
  
Altogether he’s learnt to read Merlin like the cards in the hand of a drinking companion, so he knows this time his friend isn’t being self-indulgent—he’s genuinely not doing too well.  
  
Gwaine can’t blame him. The sudden downpour earlier, just after they entered the forest, would have dampened the spirits of a much bigger, more solid man. He is so skinny, Merlin is—No, he isn’t skinny. More like…slim. It’s right on him; Gwaine can’t picture him any different. But no matter what Gwaine calls him privately: bony like a thin twig or lean like a young tree in the spring, Merlin has nothing to protect him against the forces of nature. The strong sun sizzles over his pale, tender skin. The wind makes his clothes flap around his lithe limbs like garments on a clothesline. And the chilly weight of the rain must have gone straight to Merlin’s bones with so little flesh to stand in its way.  
  
Gwaine is startled by the sudden vision of Merlin sitting in front of him, enclosed in his arms, warming up quickly from the heat of Gwaine’s body. He clears his throat and is grateful the forest is quite dark.  
  
“At least it’s dry here,” he offers, trying to make his voice sound casual and cheery.  
  
It takes a moment for Merlin to respond and then Gwaine hears his voice, filled with incredulity.  
  
“Dry? Gwaine, it’s-s-s,” Merlin stutters and Gwaine knits his eyebrows—is he _that_ cold? Merlin tries again. “The deeper we go, the—the heavier it’s raining!” he finishes, just about.  
  
There’s a real frown on Gwaine’s face now.  
  
“What are you talking about?” he asks, barely keeping the tension out of his voice. “There hasn't been a drop of rain for ages.”  
  
Merlin’s breath is hitched when he answers.  
  
“Then I must be having a bad dream but the wet feels very real, I can tell you that.”  
  
Gwaine’s hands feel a bit cold now, too, but it’s a different kind of chill. He nudges his horse closer and waits until his leg brushes the big torso of Merlin’s horse. Gwaine stretches a hand to pat the animal—  
  
—and his hand and arm instantly get wet with…well, _rain_.  
  
Gwaine pulls his hand away quickly and tries to look at it in the dark. He doesn’t see much so he lifts it to his face to touch it, and sure enough—wet it is.  
  
“What are you doing?” Merlin's voice, very close and frighteningly weak, makes Gwaine’s heart curl up in his chest in worry.  
  
“I’m trying something,” Gwaine says. “Hold your horse.”  
  
Merlin’s horse stops and Gwaine stops his as well; side by side the two beasts snort and gently shake their heads, relieved by the respite.  
  
Gwaine reaches and touches the neck of Merlin’s horse. Again, there’s wetness over it, but this time it isn’t that heavy. He stares at the place where his hand is barely outlined against Balint’s white mane. Balint is such a calm horse, but now he’s certainly restless.  
  
“What—” Merlin starts, but Gwaine shushes him. He has an idea.  
  
His hand slowly travels down the neck of the horse to the curve where it meets the back…and then further, to the smaller, dark curvature of Merlin’s thigh. Gwaine’s fingers brush it tentatively—as soon as they touch it, the rain slows down considerably.  
  
“How did you do that?” Merlin’s voice is low and awed. Suddenly Gwaine really wants to see his face, and if he can’t, he’s going to touch it then!  
  
His hand lifts and as soon as Gwaine’s fingers break any contact with Merlin’s leg, Gwaine can feel the rain beating down mercilessly over his poor, drenched arm. It’s a bizarre feeling. Not only does the rest of Gwaine’s body remain completely dry, but he can’t hear the sound of rain, either. He realizes his ears have been straining in vain to pick up the usual sounds of splatter. Gwaine reaches for Merlin’s face and in a moment his fingers meet something very wet and cold—Merlin’s cheek. No wonder his teeth are clattering; he must be freezing. Gwaine realizes that he’s spread his fingers over Merlin’s cheek, his palm cupping half of Merlin's face, about the same time he realizes that the rain has stopped completely.  
  
“Erm, right,” Merlin starts and the edge of his mouth dances under Gwaine’s hand. “Gwaine?”  
  
“Yes, Merlin?”  
  
“Move your hand away.”  
  
Gwaine almost curses in embarrassment and his hand draws back as if it’s poisonous.  
  
“Sorry, I didn’t mean—” he begins, but Merlin’s hand somehow finds his in the dark and clasps it back where it was.  
  
“No, no,” Merlin says, hurriedly. “I wanted to see—I mean, to check if—It looks like—Erm, it’s not raining where you touch me.” Something in the way Merlin says the last words makes Gwaine picture him mumbling with his chin down. It’s a sweet image and once more, Gwaine is overcome with the wish to see Merlin’s face.  
  
“It’s not raining on you now,” he corrects Merlin. “ _I_ ’ve not had any rain at all since that quick downpour when we entered the forest.”  
  
“But that was hours ago!” Merlin’s indignant breath tickles the outer edge of Gwaine’s palm and he can’t help himself but move his hand closer to Merlin’s mouth.  
  
“Yes,” he replies, while his other hand touches his sword just in case. Not much a sword can do against such happenings but it reassures him. “Sorry,” he adds because he _is_ sorry. He is sorry he made that stupid, dangerous bet with Percival, about the mythical cup of Yezarath. He is sorry that he didn’t sneak out on his own—of course Merlin would follow! For two days he scurried behind him down every corridor in Camelot, nagging and shaking his head in his inimitable, maddening, incredibly touching manner of “I-don’t-like-this.” He told Gwaine that he was coming with him, and Gwaine argued with him, half-jokingly, until Merlin just tilted his head and went quiet. Gwaine should have _known_ that with anyone else that might have been the end of it but not with Merlin. Merlin does what he decides is best, and Gwaine is torn between anger and heart-wrenching gladness that somehow his life is one of the things Merlin has decided was best to protect. Gwaine has never had a more loyal friend, and now he’s brought him to this wretched place where rain falls only on _some_ people, and it has chosen poor Merlin as its target. Gwaine’s throat tightens, just as his fist does. Enough. He is doing something about this right now!  
  
But before he even has the chance to open his mouth, both horses start twitching and nodding their heads vigorously…and then they start walking together, in the same direction, in perfect rhythm. Gwaine is so amazed that he doesn’t even attempt to stop them—it’s as if the horses know where they’re going, and somehow Gwaine doesn’t find this too far-fetched to believe.  
  
“It’s not fair.” Merlin’s words vibrate through Gwaine’s fingers. Gwaine realizes Merlin must be thinking that Gwaine lead the horses. He decides not to scare him further by telling him he has no idea where they’re going. He’s also too distracted by the discovery that Merlin’s skin has become too soft and heated where Gwaine has been touching him.  
  
“What?” he asks at length, trying to focus on the conversation and not on the pleasant warmth that's spreading back through _his_ skin.  
  
“It’s not fair that this—whatever this is, is picking on me.” There is such a familiar little whine to Merlin’s voice that Gwaine feels like pulling him into a bear hug. Well, maybe he should! For Merlin’s sake—he can’t let the poor boy freeze to death.  
  
“Gwaine?” Merlin’s voice is a bit nervous. Gwaine looks at him and can barely distinguish his glinting eyes—they must have gone even bigger than usual. He must be looking so adorab—  
  
“Gwaine!” Merlin’s voice is low and openly alarmed now.  
  
“Hm?” Gwaine manages.  
  
“Can you talk back, you know?” Merlin mutters. “You’ve gone very quiet.”  
  
Gwaine hears himself laugh. “It makes a nice change to have someone ask me to talk. The lads usually beg me to shut up. Or throw things at me.”  
  
“That’s ‘cos they like teasing you. They’d hate it if you really did shut up.” Merlin hesitates and finishes his sentence quietly. “It’s a lot more boring and—not nice, when you’re not around.”  
  
They have many points of contact now—Gwaine’s hand on Merlin’s face, their ankles, their knees—and they all flare with warmth. Gwaine coughs and desperately tries for a joke, something to make this moment less awkward, less intimate—  
  
And why does it _have_ to be less intimate? Gwaine stutters internally and searches for one good reason—yes, a good one; not something stupid, like 'What would the others say?'—and he fails. He likes being around Merlin. In fact, he’s missed spending time with him, and _just_ with him. This is nice and Gwaine should enjoy it instead of ruining it with his rough attempts at humour. Oh, he’ll never change, not really. But he isn’t the old Gwaine anymore, either. He could allow himself to be more…himself. The _other_ side of him.  
  
“Thank you,” he says simply, and feels Merlin nod.  
  
They ride in silence but it turns out it’s a short ride. The horses do know where they’re going after all, because they stop, again in frightening harmony, in a clearing amongst the trees. It’s tiny and it’s sheltered—and almost bright, compared to the darkness of the forest. Gwaine could clearly see shapes and forms now, including Merlin. He looks positively sagging on his saddle, and he’s started shivering lightly again.  
  
“Come on,” Gwaine says, voice gentle. “We’ll camp here for the night.”  
  
Merlin just nods. Gwaine lets go of his face in order to get off his horse and he hears Merlin gasp. “It-t’s raining again, oh, it’s col-ld.” Merlin’s clattering teeth are like small fists that punch Gwaine right in the gut.  
  
“Get off your horse, quick,” he orders Merlin, while he’s already rushing around to meet him—so when Merlin mounts off, Gwaine’s waiting for him. He embraces him fully, hides him in his arms, and he feels Merlin’s arms tremble for a moment, before they wind around his body. They stand like that for a few moments, hushed and still, apart from an odd double thumping that reverberates through Gwaine, quick and loud, and—  
  
Oh. It’s their hearts.  
  
“Is that better?” he murmurs, and feels his heart speed up just from talking to Merlin.  
  
Merlin just hums and buries himself further in Gwaine’s arms. “Armour’s a bit cold though,” he adds, talking directly into Gwaine’s chest.  
  
“All that nagging you did to convince me to become a knight and now you want me out of my armour.” Gwaine teases, feeling suddenly bold. There’s a little puff of breath near his neck and he realizes Merlin must have smiled. “Come on,” Gwaine says. “I’ll take this off. Let’s get comfortable.”  
  
That turns out to be easier said than done. It’s very hard to remove the armour, collect wood, start a fire, and get things off the horses, while you're constantly touching one another. Yet despite all the exertion, Gwaine finds that he’s quite cheerful and looking forward to the night.  
  
Until the screams and the howling start.  
  
They’d just arranged themselves on their improvised beds on the ground. Merlin said he was sure that as long as they just touched he was going to be fine. (He sounded a bit flustered when he said it, which made Gwaine worry that he’d made him feel uncomfortable, what with almost…groping him in his concern. So he hastily shuffled further from Merlin.) The fire was on Merlin’s other side, so Gwaine thought Merlin would be warm enough if Gwaine kept the rain at bay through a couple of very light points of contact: maybe brushing his leg with his foot, maybe just the barest touch of the fingers. It was at that particular point when he heard the blood-curdling, high-pitched scream.

It sends his hand grabbing for his sword, quicker than ever.  
  
“What is it? What?” Merlin asks, pressing himself against Gwaine.  
  
“Shh,” Gwaine says and strains his ears, but all seems completely quiet again. He listens, alert, but after he hears nothing, he relaxes a bit. Merlin relaxes, too, removes himself from Gwaine—  
  
And this time there’s howling, echoing in the entire forest, loud and guttural. It fills the air and Gwaine no longer knows where to look—the sound is everywhere. His mouth goes dry and his feet turn to marble—he’s never heard anything like it before. Merlin holds him by the arm, but has turned to the fire, and is prodding it, completely calm.  
  
“Merlin,” Gwaine whispers wondering if Merlin would hear him at all over the horrifying sound. But Merlin does. He turns to Gwaine and in the firelight his face looks lovely and peaceful, content even—but most importantly, void of any fear. Something dawns at Gwaine.  
  
“Did you not—Can you not hear this?” he asks, still finding it hard to believe. Merlin’s expression becomes puzzled. “Hear what?” he says.  
  
“This!” Gwaine waves the sword around, to encompass the entire space with his gesture, before he continues. “The cries. The howling.”  
  
Merlin listens with intent; Gwaine feels suddenly cross. “If you have to try so hard, believe me, you don’t hear it,” he says.  
  
“Sorry,” Merlin mumbles, and Gwaine shakes his head.  
  
“No; not your fault. It’s this place—it’s getting to me. I don’t understand what’s going on, but if this sound keeps going, I’ll be mad by the morning.”  
  
Merlin thinks for a moment, then asks, almost reluctant. “Maybe I should move away?”  
  
“No,” Gwaine says before Merlin’s even finished, and instinctively pulls him closer.  
  
And, of course, the howling drops quieter and gets more distant.  
  
 _Of course._  
  
“Uh, Merlin,” Gwaine says, voice low and quite eager. Merlin looks at him, eyes huge and uniquely cheeky, yet trusting. His face is wonderfully flushed and his hair is sticking out in all directions. Gwaine realizes that what he’s about to do won’t be difficult at all.  
  
He cradles Merlin in his arms and lowers his head until his lips meet Merlin’s already slightly open ones. Warmth and complete quiet instantly fill the air, while incredible pleasure unfurls in Gwaine’s chest and spreads through his body. He feels Merlin melt into him, one arm curling around Gwaine’s torso, while the other, quite unexpectedly daring, rushes to his neck and buries itself into Gwaine’s hair. Gentle but insistent, it pushes down, while Merlin mouth savours Gwaine’s greedily. With the push Gwaine really deepens the kiss and the quiet is broken again—this time by both of their moans. Merlin’s entire body goes taut and he presses it along Gwaine’s, who’s happy to note through a haze that they have a new, extra point of contact now.  
  
He rolls Merlin over onto his back, covering him entirely with his body. They should be just fine for the night.  
  
***  
  
“What was the name of the forest you said they’d have to go through,” Gaius asks Percival, amusement and concern mingling in his voice.  
  
“I can’t remember.” Percival frowns in concentration. “I think it was called Silva Altus.”  
  
“Thank you,” Gaius says in a beat, nods, and leaves the knight behind. He allows his lips to stretch fully only when he’s safely behind his closed door. “Well, well,” he murmurs, busying himself with an old book. “Could that be _The Forest of the Deepest Desires_?”  
  
The End


End file.
